


How Clef-er

by moboe



Series: The Forte!verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Orchestra, Cellist!Castiel, Explicit Language, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, M/M, My First Smut, Porn With Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 16:23:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3256532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moboe/pseuds/moboe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is a prodigy cellist, and just landed a spot in the Kansas City Symphony. He's got a solo in the next concert, and the only problem is that for the first time in his life, he's struggling. Enter Dean, the mediocre drummer from the school band who used to make Castiel's musical career a living hell. (Continuation of It's My Forte)</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Clef-er

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Many people suggested that I make a sequel, so I shall. This might become a big series... who knows... Mwahaha! 
> 
> Here's the piece Castiel's struggling with: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O0_gw2Lillg  
> I honestly suggest listening to it. It's haunting and gorgeous.

Castiel had another solo, but this one was for an actual orchestra. He’d auditioned and gotten the part as the lead cellist in the Kansas City Symphony. Sure, he still played for school, but this was _huge._ He would actually get _payment_ for playing in this orchestra. And he was the lead cellist! He was both the youngest member of the orchestra, and a lead.

 

There was only one problem with this, though. What came with more advanced orchestras came more difficult music, and Castiel was struggling. No longer did he have the problems that he used to, which included an arrogant snare drummer, but instead the fact that he was now critiquing his own playing harder than he ever had before.

 

He had to be perfect. “No mistakes,” didn’t cut it anymore, he had to have everything right—better than right. The dynamics, the vibrato, the posture—it all had to be perfect down to the single hair’s breadth.

 

Zoltán Kodály knew how to write beautiful music, but he also apparently expected the only cellists to be playing his opuses to be unflawed and of the uppermost confidence. Castiel was neither of those things, though he sometimes played as though he was.

 

Over the months that had since passed since he and Dean had become friends—and an unspoken “more than friends” component that neither of them acknowledged (ever since Castiel had given Dean a single kiss at the orchestra concert, they’d skirted around any such topic)—they’d become closer and closer. Now Castiel was playing the god-awful Opus 8 in front of Dean, focusing hard enough to have a vein bulging from his forehead, fingers flying across the strings, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth while he struggled for breath. His palms were getting sweaty, and his fingers were slipping, and he was only halfway through it when he gave up and put Esther down, taking a deep breath.

 

“Cas,” Dean murmured, and Castiel put up a hand, silencing him.

 

Once he’d regained himself from his anger, Castiel stood and started pacing. “Look, so I understand I’m supposed to be really good, but come _on._ Zoltán Kondály was a fucking _psychopath._ ”

 

Dean smirked and shook his head, standing from where he’d been sitting on Castiel’s bed, moving toward him and taking him by the shoulders. A thin sheen of sweat had broken out over his forehead, but Dean ignored it. “Dude, if it’s that hard, just tell the conductor you can’t do it.”

 

Castiel rolled his eyes. “First of all, I cannot just _tell the conductor_ that I can’t do it. I was hired under the principle that there was nothing I couldn’t play, and this is a test, I know it is. They don’t expect me to get this. But I will fucking get this if it’s the last thing I do.”

 

“You’re bein’ a little melodramatic, there, buddy.”

 

“ _You try it,_ ” Castiel hissed, pushing his bow in Dean’s face, and the green-eyed teen held up his hands.

 

“Dude, I’m not trying to say that I can do it. I’m just saying that that piece is fuckin’ ridiculous. And if you can’t play it, there’s no shame in sayin’ you can’t. I’m at least eighty percent positive that the majority of cellists can’t play that.”

 

Castiel sighed and put down the bow, pushing his fingers through his hair. “But I want to play it. Sure, it’s ridiculous, but… It’s gorgeous. It’s like the embodiment of panic, you know? And when I play, I want to be able to instill that kind of emotion.”

 

Dean smiled softly, shaking his head. He reached out and nudged Castiel’s jaw with his knuckle. “You do, though, Cas.”

 

Castiel smiled back, searching Dean’s eyes for any insincerity, and finding none. “Thanks, Dean.” It brought him back to the night of the concert. _That means a lot, coming from you,_ he’d said, and then he’d leaned forward and kissed Dean. He didn’t regret it in the least—Dean had tasted like apple pie with the faintest twinges of whiskey, but they’d parted and then pretended like it hadn’t happened.

 

Dean seemed to be thinking the same thing, because he cleared his throat and turned around. “Anyway. I’m willin’ to help you. You’ve still got a few months before the concert, so I’ll sit here and listen to you struggle over the same piece until you inevitably get it right. I could even give you a few pointers.”

 

At that, Castiel rolled his eyes. “Please tell me this isn’t going to be the kind of thing that will make me punch you.”

 

“Well,” Dean said with a laugh, “that all really depends on whether or not you can handle some simple criticism.”

 

“I can handle criticism,” Castiel was quick to supply, crossing his arms across his chest and narrowing his eyes. “As long as they don’t come in the form of poorly-disguised insults.”

 

Dean grinned and placed a hand to his chest. “Oh, you wound me.” He sat on the bed and pulled his feet up, crossing them and settling his elbows on his knees. “Alright, Mr. I-Can-Do-Anything, play it again.”

 

Castiel pursed his lips, but did as he was told, sitting ramrod straight, picking up Esther and her bow, and going at it again.

 

***

 

In the entirety of Zoltán Kondály’s Opus 8 was over thirty minutes long, and there was no way Castiel would ever be able to play all of it with just a few months of rigorous practice. Thankfully, though, Castiel was only playing movement 3 of 3. It was around nine minutes, and very difficult, very fast-paced, and _very_ involved.

 

Dean came over every day after school and listened to Castiel struggle with it. Their friendship grew because of it, and after month one of practicing, every time they looked at each other, they blushed. In the middle of month two, Dean let it slip that he thought Castiel was beautiful when he played, and seven weeks into it, when Castiel got the whole thing perfect for the first time, he might have jumped into the air, pulled Dean up from the bed, and planted a kiss on his lips.

 

When they pulled back, Castiel refused to act like it hadn’t happened. “I… would like for that to happen again,” he said stiltedly, and Dean quirked an eyebrow.

 

“The kiss, or the music?”

 

Castiel narrowed his eyes and playfully pushed Dean back, watching him fall back on the bed. “Both, you prick.”

 

Dean laughed and pulled Castiel down with him. It’s useless saying that they didn’t get much done for the rest of that practice. After that, they got a lot more sickeningly sweet, a lot more annoying for the other students of their high school.

 

They kissed when they left each other for each class, and kissed when they reunited. They held hands when they walked down the hall and took up way too much space at their lockers. They were inseparable. Castiel’s parents were just happy he’d found something else to obsess over other than the cello (because, while they’d loved his music making, he was not the most sociable boy), and Dean’s parents were just as supportive.

 

Castiel still practiced every day after school, but with every measure he played perfectly, he got a kiss from Dean.

 

Finally, he’d consistently played it exactly how he’d wanted to hear it, and when he looked up at Dean, he saw all the awe in Dean’s eyes that the boy had been talking about feeling before—except now, it was all on his face.

 

“You know it’s really hot when you play like that, right?”

 

Castiel flushed awkwardly and put Esther back on her stand, moving and walking over to Dean. “How exactly was I playing?” he asked softly, straddling Dean’s thighs, looking down at him with a small smirk.

 

“With your entire heart and soul,” Dean replied. “I know it sounds cheesy, but, damn, Cas. I wouldn’t care— _no one_ would care—if you played every other measure wrong. When you play like that, pouring everything you have into it, it’s just…” He let out a shaky breath, and Castiel leaned down the rest of the way, capturing his lips in a kiss that took the remaining breath in his lungs away.

 

He pushed Dean back against the bed, climbing over him and cupping his jaw, moving his lips languidly against Dean’s—in no hurry to get anywhere, only wanting the feeling of Dean’s lips against his own. There was a heat in both of them that had been burning for a long time, and he knew that soon it would be sweltering.

 

Dean was clumsily pawing at Castiel’s chest, working the knot in Castiel’s stupid blue tie that matched his eyes perfectly, slipping the cloth from around his neck and setting it somewhere beside the bed, on the floor. Next he went for Castiel’s buttons, one by one unfastening them from the buttonholes, until he was halfway down and Castiel pulled back.

 

They’d made out before, sure, but they’d never removed one another’s clothing like this. Castiel gazed down at Dean, some parts awed, some parts aroused, but most parts completely lit with joy. His lips were kiss-swollen, eyes dark, and it made a small sound rise from the back of Dean’s throat. Castiel shivered at the sound, biting down on his lower lip and looking at the door. “I—I should lock that,” he breathed, and Dean nodded jerkily.

 

“Y-yeah,” he agreed, pushing at Castiel’s torso, feeling the smooth planes of his chest and letting out another shaky breath. “Go lock the door. And come back.”

 

Castiel laughed and kissed the corner of Dean’s lips. “Always,” he murmured, just before climbing off of Dean and moving over to the door.

 

In the time it took for Castiel to get back, Dean scooted up the bed, kicking off his shoes and socks, only looking up when Castiel was hovering over him again. This time, he looked uncertain. “Dean, I’m not sure…”

 

Dean’s face fell, and he wet his lips. Sure, he’d been getting off only to the thought of Castiel lately, and he really, really wanted this, but if Castiel didn’t, then he would respect the teen’s boundaries. “That’s okay,” he murmured, smiling a little and reaching out, brushing his fingers through Castiel’s hair. “We can just kiss. Or… do whatever.”

 

Castiel smiled and shook his head. “No, I mean…” He swallowed thickly. “I’m not sure how to do this.”

 

This time, Dean was the one to laugh, and he reached forward, cupping the back of Castiel’s neck and pulling him into a hot kiss, licking into his mouth and trying to prove that even if _Cas_ didn’t know what to do, _Dean_ did, and he would help him through it.

 

“That’s okay, too,” Dean breathed when he pulled away. “Do you want this?”

 

Castiel gave a vigorous nod. “Yes. Absolutely.”

 

Dean wet his lips and nodded along with him, pulling him down onto the bed and switching their positions, so he was the one hovering over Castiel. “Okay,” he murmured softly. “Just let me take the lead, alright? And don’t hesitate to tell me to stop if you want to.”

 

Taking a deep breath in, Castiel nodded, and Dean dipped down, pressing his lips to Castiel’s throat. Castiel, in turn, made a soft sound, hips rolling of their own accord while Dean chuckled softly.

 

“Easy there, tiger,” he whispered, hands moving down Castiel’s torso, now once again unbuttoning his shirt. He pushed it off Castiel’s shoulders once he’d unbuttoned it all, moving back just to appreciate the smooth planes of his chest, the flatness of his stomach. He was lean, but not wiry in any way—built like a runner rather than a weight lifter.

 

Dean took his turn, pulling his shirt over his chest, and Castiel then took his turn to marvel, reaching out and brushing his fingers over the contours of Dean’s body, stopping at his hips and brushing his thumbs over Dean’s skin. The green-eyed teen made a soft noise, his own hands doing an exploration of sorts of Castiel’s body.

 

The rest of their clothes slowly melted away, until there were no layers to keep them apart. Castiel bit his lip, chest flushed, cock curved up toward his belly, and Dean straddled him, looking not down at Castiel’s body, but instead into his eyes.

 

“We can stop,” he whispered, pressing their foreheads together.

 

“I don’t want to,” Castiel murmured back, and Dean smiled, finally letting his hips roll down against Castiel’s. The feeling wasn’t something that Castiel would be able to easily explain, but it sent a jolt through him, head falling back against the pillows, lips parting, fingers curling into Dean’s biceps. “ _Dean,_ ” he breathed, eyes fluttering closed, and Dean did it again.

 

Their cocks brushed together, and hopeless little sounds made their way out of both of the high schooler’s mouths. Knowing they had to be quiet if they didn’t want to be caught, Castiel moved one of his hands to Dean’s nape and pulled him down into a sloppy, heated kiss, moaning into his mouth and bucking his hips up.

 

Before, they’d been slow and careful, only touching each other with brushes of skin, small innocent whispers met between them and tender kisses. Now, it was all hot and rushed, no time for caution. It felt too good to let caution guide them—and there was no doubt in either boy’s mind now: this was decidedly _not_ innocent. Their kisses were messy and careless, teeth clacking and tongues twisting together. Dean’s hand was wrapped around both of them, jerking them with little rhythm, breathing harshly into Castiel’s mouth and moaning every so often.

 

It was hard to remain quiet when it felt so _good,_ Castiel’s body tense in every way, drawing closer and closer to the edge. It was embarrassing, really, how close he was after so little time, but he couldn’t deny that his orgasm was just behind him, chasing after the taste of Dean’s tongue.

 

“ _Dean,_ ” he growled, and Dean nipped at his lip, sending him over the edge he’d been desperately hanging on to, coming over his stomach and Dean’s hand with a whimper. His entire body went tense, and he buried his nose in Dean’s neck, writhing with the feeling before going slack.

 

Dean followed only a few seconds after, moaning obscenely into Castiel’s skin and making a much bigger mess than Castiel had only moments before. Dean collapsed on the bed next to Cas, breathing heavily and staring up at the ceiling. It was only when he looked over at Castiel that it was made clear that he was smiling like an idiot—sweaty, but incredibly happy.

 

Castiel rolled his eyes but returned the smile, scooting close and lacing their fingers together.

 

“We should probably clean up,” Dean mumbled, in a way that definitely didn’t convince Castiel.

 

“Yeah,” the blue-eyed teen replied, sighing wistfully. “Just a few more beats.”

 

Dean snickered. “Don’t you mean seconds? You’ve been readin’ too much music.”

 

“You love it.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

***

 

The concert came two weeks after, and Dean had purchased a ticket that landed him in the front row. And when it was time for Castiel’s solo, he turned his chair toward the audience, took a deep breath, and started to play.

 

Each note was filled with passion. He was able to play with every fiber of his being, fingers plucking where there were short, staccato notes, and the bow gliding across the strings where the smooth and rich notes went long. The piece had brought him to tears the first time that he’d listened to it, and when he finished with a flourish and looked up, he could see that many of the audience members felt the same way.

 

He’d accomplished what he’d always wanted to—he’d made others feel the way music made him feel. And when his gaze flicked to Dean, he could see his boyfriend beaming, halfheartedly wiping away his own tears—the first to lead the audience in a standing ovation.

 

Castiel slowly bent in a bow, curling his fingers around the neck of his cello. When he came back up, tears were glistening in his own eyes, but he ignored them.

 

After the concert was over, Castiel was forced to stand in the lobby of the theater, being greeted by many people, old and young alike. The last person who greeted him was a boy with freckles and green eyes, his lips stretched wide in a grin.

 

“You did it,” he whispered, leaning in and pecking Castiel on the cheek. “You did so good, Cas, I… I’m amazed every time you play, but tonight…” He grinned. “I’ll meet you back at the Impala, okay?” He leaned in and put his lips close to Castiel’s ear, just to whisper, “And by the way, I’m goin’ to enjoy taking that suit off you tonight.” Dean pulled back with a wink and scampered out of the room, leaving Castiel more than a little flushed. He quickly congratulated his fellow orchestra members and hurried off to the Impala, where Dean kept his word, and enjoyed every moment of stripping Castiel down. 

 

All in all, it was a pretty good night.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos are always appreciated! And remember, comments usually urge me to update faster (js) <3
> 
> Please forgive and remind me of any grammar mistakes. I try my best, but no one's perfect :)


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